Rocket Boys
by Crowmunculus
Summary: 100 HeiEd prompts based on rocketry terms. Ratings and genres vary, anime and movie spoilers.
1. Thermal Conductivity

**A/N: So I got bored. And when I get bored, I get Ideas. Guaranteeing that I would never finish anything ever again, I looked up 100 rocketry-related terms and listed them in no particular order. So here's this thing: 100 Ed/Hei ficlets based on those terms. **

**Well. It'll be 100 when I'm finished. Updates will be sporadic at best and nonexistent at worst, because I'm a high school senior and thus busybusybusy. Some ficlets are standalones, and some are connected to other ficlets; continuity will be stated in the header along with the genre and rating.**

**Here's the first one I wrote, and more will follow soon as I get around to writing them. Note that never again will the A/N be this horrendously long – each following "chapter" will just have the header. Apologies for the teal deer, especially because this is winding up almost as long as the first ficlet :P**

**Feedback is seven different flavors of love! (Strawberry, orange, lemon, lime, blueberry, boysenberry, and grape, for the curious. And now I'm hungry.) **

**#39. Thermal Conductivity: A measure of the ability of a substance to conduct heat.  
Genre: Fluff, sap, and UST  
Rating: T for profanity  
****Continuity: Side story to #30. Engine  
Notes: Thanks to the Beta Posse member Fated-Shadows for the feedback and support. She is awesome and Puzzletastic and doesn't afraid of anything.**

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They had not left the bed, because it was cold and the furnace was broken. Their breaths crystallized and hung in the shared air in front of their faces. Edward had grudgingly removed his prosthetics, because they leached heat and the cold hurt his joints, but the metal ports where they connected were deathly cold and had to be wrapped up in scarves.

The cold hurt his lungs, but Edward was snuggling up to him and Alfons had an excuse to wrap one arm around his waist and hold him close when he shivered, so he didn't mind

No university, no work, and nothing to do all holiday long other than curl up together under the covers. Alfons was fine with that.

If only Edward felt the _same way. _

"It's fucking cold," the man in question mumbled, burrowing into the down quilt and, consequently, closer to Alfons. He hunkered down until all that could be seen was that ridiculous gravity-defying cowlick antenna, and even that seemed to shrink away from the cold.

Despite his complaints, he felt warm pressed against Alfons's side. Unthinkingly, Alfons gripped Edward closer against himself. It took more of a conscious effort to twine their legs together, and he did this too. Edward mumbled a questioning noise into a mouthful of Alfons's sweater, but said nothing.

"It is cold," Alfons said, "But I'm not so sure about the 'fucking' part."

"Shaddup," he grumbled, nuzzling his face further into the sweater, and did he not realize the implications of this? Was he even _aware_ that he was resting his head on Alfons's chest, and clutching at his sleeve?

Tentatively, with fragile hope, Alfons used his free hand to disentangle Edward's from his sleeve and hold it in his own. Edward looked up at him and had the nerve to look _confused_. "…Your hand looked cold," he explained sheepishly, giving it a soft squeeze; Edward blinked once, grunted the equivalent of a shrug, and planted his face right back in Alfons's shirt.

Something flip-flopped inside Alfons's chest, and he could almost swear that Edward was doing this on purpose…but he didn't want to risk it, not now, when he was already this close.

For now, this was enough.


	2. Autopilot

**#52. Autopilot:** **A mechanical, electrical, or hydraulic system used to guide a vehicle without assistance from a human being.  
Genre: Aaaaaangst  
Rating: K (K+ for depressing and canon character death? I dunno.)  
****Continuity: Standalone  
Notes: Betaed by the wonderful and talented Fated-Shadows, who I thank greatly for putting up with my unhealthy love of semicolons. I wish I knew how to quit them.**

**As an interesting side-note, this was all my treacherous mind could produce on 503 when I wanted to write EdWin fluff. Curse you, brain!**

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He wondered how long it would take for this death to sink in. Life had a surreal quality to it; he realized dimly that he would need to arrange a funeral, and wondered what he would dress Alfons in. Alfons seemed to only possess white button-down shirts and blandly colored work trousers. Ed would have to buy him a suit, for the purpose of burying it, and burying Alfons.

Ed tried not to feel anything. He walked, silently, over to where Alfons was stretched out on the floor; wordlessly; he didn't have the words. Noa stood up and stepped aside. Ed kneeled down next to Alfons, and gently clasped limp shoulders, lifted Alfons's head onto his knee.

He would destroy the Gate. He would never go home again. But first, he would trace the contours of Alfons's face with his remaining hand, feel the last faint traces of warmth leave his skin, fully realize for the first time how very different he was from Al.

He tried not to feel anything. He tried not to feel Al's sad, questioning eyes on his back. He tried not to feel the gradual stiffness seeping into Alfons's muscles. He tried not to feel Alfons's blood soak into the fabric of his trousers.

He tried not to feel it. And that's what he'd done for so long, wasn't it? He'd never been strong. He'd only ever run away. He didn't know how to deal with loss; there was always something else to do.

He realized dimly that he would need to arrange a funeral for his father. He would need to bury Hohenheim, he would need to bury Alfons; he would need to forge papers for Al, and teach him this country's language. He would need to leave this country, this country that killed Alfons, and find something else to hold onto.

He would never go home again. He wondered how long it would take for that to sink in.

Ed looked up, towards the Gate, towards everything he left behind, and looked down, to the seventeen years gone, the life ended all too soon in his arms. He held Alfons tightly to his chest and tried to tell himself that he was not holding onto a corpse.

He would probably never feel it.


	3. Prototype

**#86. Prototype: the original or model on which something is based or formed.  
Genre: POINTLESS FLUFF  
Rating: PG for kissy faces  
Continuity: Standalone  
Notes: This is lightly revised writing from late 2009, rehashed for this purpose. **

**I AM A TOTAL SAP.**

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His first kiss isn't much, just the gentle press of lips against his own, Alfons's hands warm on his lower back. It's only a few seconds, of silence, of their hammering heartbeats, of soft breathing and soft lips and the gentle pressure of Alfons's arms around him.

Ed doesn't know what to do with his hands. His arms stay flat at his sides, limp and far too heavy; his fingers twitch when Alfons slides his hands down on his hips. Ed doesn't know what to do with his face - his nose feels awkward and too large, and he doesn't know whether to tilt his chin, like Alfons is doing, so he just stays still and feels incredibly stupid.

"There," Alfons says when he's pulled away. His hands remain on Ed's waist, shaking. "That's how I feel about you." He swallows heavily, and averts his eyes from Ed's face. He blushes, and flinches, like he's expecting some kind of divine retribution, like he's expecting Ed to pull away and stare him down in disgust.

He turns like he's going to leave, and Ed shakes himself out of the kiss-induced stupor (_He _kissed _me!) _to snatch his hand and plead, "Don't go."

Alfons spins back, stunned, and his wrist feels like it's burning in Ed's grip and his stomach is doing somersaults and he doesn't know what he's doing and he kisses him. He screws his eyes shut and his cheeks are on fire and he slings his arms around Alfons's neck and _kisses _him.

He's sure he's a horrible kisser. Their lips are smashed together so hard it hurts, Alfons's mouth is half-open from surprise. He lifts himself up on his toes and opens his mouth and licks Alfons's lips, and pulls away awkwardly with a wet _smack_. "That's how I feel about _you_," he explains, still too embarrassed to look Alfons in the eye.

A hand slides up slowly to rest over his fluttering heartbeat, first the palm, then the back. The touch still feels like it's burning. The other hand touches his hair, brushes his bangs out of his face. Ed shivers from anticipation, and partly from nerves; he doesn't know what he's supposed to do.

"What now?" Ed asks quietly, daring to open his eyes: Alfons is smiling, ecstatic, and all that worry melts away, giving way to affection.

Alfons leans in and kisses him. They get it right this time.


	4. Fuselage

**#34. Fuselage: an aircaft's main body section that holds crew and passengers or cargo; in single-engine aircraft it usually contains an engine.**  
**Genre: Sappy (oh god the sap, sappiest damn thing I've ever written) but sad – the bittersweet kind of syrup  
Rating: K+ for canon character death and depressing  
Continuity: Standalone****  
Notes: Unbetaed. And what the hell is with me and my fixation on Alfons's death?**

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It's said that your life flashes before your eyes, just before you die. You told me that it wasn't true, Edward, that when you bled to death under a ballroom ceiling, all you could think about were your regrets, all you could feel was remorse for leaving your brother alone.

I didn't believe you at the time, though I believe you now. You never lied to me, Edward, even when I lied to you.

But you're wrong. As I'm bleeding to death on the warehouse floor, I see my life pass by: all I can see is you.

But I have my regrets, too. I regret that I only listened to you after it was too late. I regret that I never told you I was dying until after it was too late. I regret that we couldn't have more time. I regret that I couldn't go with you.

I regret never telling you: I love you. All I ever did was love you.

I hope you know that now, Edward. That more than words can say, I love you. And I can only hope that my actions speak louder than the words I can't voice, and that you will make it home to your brother and be _happy_, the way you never were with me. I regret that I won't be there to see you two together again. I regret that I won't be there to see you smiling, finally smiling, after all these years.

But this? I will never regret this. I will never regret loving you. Even if you forget me, even if the rest of the world forgets me, if this is all I ever accomplished in my life, sending you home, making you happy, then it was worth it.

Even as I'm dying, all I hear is music. And all I can see is you.


	5. Trajectory

**81. Trajectory: The curve that a body (as a planet or comet in its orbit or a rocket) describes in space.  
Genre: Aaaangst  
Rating: K+ for kissy faces and depressing****  
Continuity: Standalone  
Notes: May or may not reference ****Nightmare****, one of my standalone fics. I seem to have a Thing for non-naughty bed scenes. I think this is my subconscious's way of telling me to get more sleep. Dammit.  
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**This is a rough draft and it hates me. Critique makes me love you, in a completely writer-reader appropriate sort of way.**

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He's a heavy sleeper, but certain things wake him immediately – heavy breathing, thudding heartbeats, the sound of crying. All three pulled Ed from his sleep to feel Alfons stifling sobs against the back of his neck, lips warm and wet with tears pressed at the skin just above his fake shoulder. Alfons's arms were wrapped around him, as always – his chest to Ed's back, because they fit so well together – and he was shaking.

The room was dark and Ed was tired, but he wiggled until Alfons loosened his embrace just enough for Ed to roll over and face him. "Hey," Ed murmured and bowed his head forward, resting his forehead on Alfons's collar. "I'm here."

He didn't ask what the nightmare was about, because he never did, and Alfons never asked him because they were both too young to be worried about dying. It was a bad dream, and that was all. Nightmares were all the same – something you're afraid of, it doesn't matter what, it's still enough to shake you.

Alfons was definitely shaken. He squeezed Ed close again, and fervently kissed the part of his hair, over and over. "Edward," he said, "Don't try to wake up. Don't leave me here alone."

"I'm not going anywhere," Ed said soothingly and squeezed him tight with his one arm in return, and they both knew it was a lie but lies are only what you want to hear anyway. "I'm here. It's just a dream, Alfons, you're okay now."

It's not just a dream and they both know it.


End file.
